Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s the nights that are hell.

Darkness falls, the city outside quiets, and the cool glow of a laptop screen several feet away is not enough to drown the thoughts that begin to race in the absence of anything else to focus on. The subtle tapping of keys is not enough. The soft breathing makes it worse.

When it’s quiet like this, when it’s dark, when he’s laying in bed staring up at the ceiling or the inside of his eyelids or the opposing wall, his mind taunts him. His own mind, normally his to wield, his most valuable asset, becomes more of an enemy to him than the detective he’s forced to share a room with.

A life with.

And that’s part of it– that’s most of it, actually. Not just their ordained proximity, but him. L crawls under his skin, digs through the mess of his insides, pulls his heart out with two hands just to examine it with clinical detachment, then puts it back and acts like there’s no difference to it now that it’s been observed. L worms his way down his throat, burrows in his trachea, stretches spindly fingers through his bronchioles until his fingertips brush against alveoli, and he squeezes and flexes and sees what happens.

He always wants to see. He likes provoking, agitating. He’s interested in facets, in the corners of people they try to keep hidden away. For good reason. Has he ever thought that people keep those parts tucked away for good reason? It doesn’t occur to L that he doesn’t have the right to examine the way he does, is not entitled to answers or permission or 24/7 surveillance. He just does whatever he wants. He pokes and prods and takes and breaks and hums curiously and keeps his black-hole eyes open, open, open wide and someone could fall right in if they aren’t careful.

He’s careful, of course– Light is a very careful person. He’s controlled. He’s in control. Always.

Except, arguably, the nights.

The nights– the nights. The soft breathing. The rare, low clearing of a throat. The glances that sometimes he catches and the rest of the time he just feels. Sometimes he watches back. He’s entitled to it, really, earned it, after everything he’s put up with. L doesn’t seem to mind, but of course he notices, and it’s so infuriating because there’s no way to unsettle him the way he unsettles Light. There’s no way to break him, no obvious tactic anyway, and god does Light want to break him. He wants to tear him apart.

He wants to wrap his hands around that pale, slender neck and squeeze and watch L’s eyes bulge and his face turn purple and his blank expression turn to panic. He wants to rake his claws– nails– down L’s chest, form nice long rivers of crimson that spill across his sides, down the curve of his torso, fill the valleys of his ribs. He aches for it, for stuttered gasps, for fear, real and palpable.

He wants to cut open L’s stomach and pull his intestines out and nestle himself into the gap that’s left behind. Light will be the one to clinically examine, the one to take casual note of inane things like strawberries and sugar and too much cake inside him. He’s sure he’ll find something in there, in the disgusting mass of tubes and lumps and blood and acid. Something that proves L is human, proves he’ll stop breathing one day.

The fucking breathing. Light rolls to his side, looks at the wall instead of the ceiling, and folds half the pillow over his head to try and block it out.

He’ll make it stop, someday. He’ll wrap this chain that binds them around L’s throat and tighten it and grin madly and watch and get close and watch and the breathing will stutter, will slow, then will stop, eventually, and L will go limp and his long fingers won’t type and his ever-observant eyes won’t see anything anymore.

Light considers that maybe he shouldn’t think things like this. He is a good person and he has never in his life wanted someone dead– well, sure, he’s thought the world would be better off without some people, but he’s never wanted to kill someone. That would be ridiculous. It doesn’t make sense that Light Yagami, shining star of Japan’s youth, would dream of cold-blooded murder, fantasize about violence he wouldn’t be able to stomach if he wasn’t the one perpetrating it. It’s strange. It’s wrong. It’s horrifying. But it’s Light having these thoughts, and he is in control of his mind and he is upstanding and righteous and anything his brain conjures must be justified.

He tells himself that it’s understandable– a trauma response or something like that. Because L has put him through hell. He has orchestrated terrible, terrible things– put cameras in his home, kept him chained up in solitary confinement for far longer than necessary, forced his own father to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger. He has never once given up on his conviction that Light is Kira, which is absurd, and he has never stopped reminding Light of it either. He keeps them chained together even though it is abundantly clear that Light is innocent. More than any of that, though, he is endlessly annoying.

Breathing. Typing. Crinkling plastic wrappers on little candies. Not showering every day, even though it would be so easy to just follow Light’s schedule. Condescension that he barely tries to hide. No shoes. That stupid crouch. Spiky, messy hair. Watching eyes, pitch-dark, always watching, unblinking, too big for his face that’s too sharp and too pale. Thin lips. A wet tongue that wraps around chocolate and popsicles and hangs out while his spider fingers plop sugar cubes onto it.

Light squeezes his eyes shut, furrows his brow. No. His mind is beginning to betray him. He won't let it. Not this time.

He can’t hear the breathing anymore, with how tightly he’s holding the pillow against his ear, and it’s a relief because he can pretend that L is dead. Or not there. But he prefers to imagine him dead.

Dead. Dead, dead, dead. A splayed out corpse, ugly in its awkward angles and unnatural paleness. Light chews on his lips, lets the corners of his mouth twitch into a small smile as he pictures it. L is bloody and hacked apart. L is splattered on the ground. L is limp with vacant eyes and an open, bleeding mouth that can’t accuse anyone of anything.

Light doubts even Kira wants L dead as much as he does. He doesn’t even know what L looks like, so he doesn’t get to fantasize about it properly. How sad.

But Light does, and Light can, and Light does. His fingers twitch as he imagines them around L’s throat again, and his smile widens, and he relaxes a little. He pictures the bruises, a black and purple afterimage in the shape of Light’s hands, and it’s so satisfying that he almost sighs contentedly, but he holds it in, because he is the very picture of control.

He is so controlled, and he is so in control of his mind, and he is thinking about exactly what he wants to think about.

Sure, it’s a little odd, but his situation is objectively insane and he is reacting appropriately. It’s not like he’s really going to kill L. It’s not like he really wants to. It’s just a nice thought.

Light Yagami doesn’t want to kill anyone, and hasn’t, and won’t. And Light Yagami has normal, appropriate thoughts given his circumstances, and he is in perfect control of himself, and he is not starting to get hard in his pajama pants from thinking his appropriate thoughts, because that would be strange and that would be a betrayal and he does not betray himself.

He’s not hard, because he isn’t noticing that he is, and it would be weird if he was.

He should just think more about killing L. He loves to think about it, and it’s a normal way to cope with his situation and his trauma.

Light thinks about the blood covering his hands. He pictures a long throat. He imagines touching that body, poking at it, and it’s still, and it can’t taunt him or look at him or follow him around wherever he goes. He smears the blood across L’s face in his imagination, looks at it glisten on his lips. He digs his hands into his chest and pulls out his heart and looks at it.

He relishes it in, this lump of nothing in his hands that is still and dripping and heavy and he squeezes it until it squishes and splatters apart. He reaches down again, drops the destroyed heart and pulls L’s ugly face apart until he sees the brain behind it, and it’s really not as impressive anymore when it drips out of a split skull. He touches the gray mess of it, spreads his sticky red fingers until he covers most of it with his hand. He grins wide, in his head and on his face in the dark.

He’s partially curled in on himself now, which somehow happened without him noticing. He’s relaxed the grip on the pillow against his ear, just resting his hand there now, so L’s breathing is barely audible and the typing slightly more so. Light breathes slowly, carefully, because he has a feeling his breath has been coming quicker and he doesn’t want L to take notice of that. L might seem like he can read minds sometimes, but Light has kept this… habit of his hidden from him so far and he intends to keep it that way.

His mind flashes him a picture, a sensation, the feeling of Light’s tongue licking up L’s throat, and he’s confused because there might be blood or there might just be sweat, and he’s uncomfortable because he didn’t want to think that, and his smile fades and he curls into himself more.

That’s not right. He doesn’t want that. He wants L’s head on a spike. He wants his innards spread across a canvas, draped on a cross. He wants to drag his hands across that horribly thin body, twist him and bend him and claw at him and feel his warm skin convulse, burn–

Or no, wait– his cold, dead skin–

Cooling skin, because Light’s just killed him, and the blood is warm but the flesh is losing heat and Light runs his hands along it, absorbing that warmth, consuming every facet of L he can touch, completely subsuming him and in his head he looks down at L and laughs and laughs. He’s nothing, he thinks frantically, nothing to me. Got what he fucking deserved.

And it feels good to think these things, to lovingly linger on these images in his mind. He takes care in the construction of each one. He arranges L’s limbs like a model, pokes at his face until it takes on the perfect dead-eyed, yet horrified, beautifully freshly-killed expression. Light spreads his insides out to either side of him, sometimes in a heap and sometimes resembling angel wings. 

He kisses L’s heart before he replaces it in his chest. The blood smears over Light’s mouth and his chin and he licks it away and wants to moan. It’s sweet, like strawberry syrup.

It’s so, so good to dwell on, and it makes his insides heat up and anything that makes him feel that good surely can’t be that fucked up, because he’s normal. And he’s fine. And there’s nothing wrong with him.

Except he thinks he really might be hard now, and that does feel… well, like maybe he shouldn’t be. Not from these thoughts. But it’s not really about the blood and the killing and L’s corpse, right? It’s about power. Payback. Finally breaking L, forcing away his composure, getting one over on him for all he’s done. Retribution. Justice. And that’s quite an understandable fantasy, isn’t it?

Sex is about control and power. So, logically, his unrelated fantasies also about control and power might bleed over into a physical reaction. It’s not his fault.

But it does feel more wrong in the dark, in the early hours of the morning. As quickly as he justifies his thoughts, his mind pushes more, more bloody, more brutal, and the images are so good he has to bite his tongue to avoid gasping in delight. Gargling blood in L’s throat. His eyes, wide and terrified and betrayed. His eyes, losing what little shine they had, fading into death. His eyes, his eyes, his awful black-hole eyes that are so wide and so deep closing slowly as Light looks down, holding him in his arms and twisting a knife in his stomach.

Light stretches out and rolls onto his front and shoves his face into the mattress, holding the pillow over his head like that will hide him from judgement. This is the betrayal. This is why he can’t trust his mind at night, why he despises the quiet and the breathing and the nothing. The hell isn’t how he relishes in murder fantasies, it’s when the murder fantasies start to turn into this, this horrible physical excitement, and he can’t stop it and he starts to think maybe, maybe he might not be normal or a good person and maybe L has a point.

His hips roll forward, he can’t help it, but it’s so, so slight, so unnoticeable. If it was noticed, it could easily be mistaken for casual shifting in bed. It’s not anywhere near enough, and it never is, and this has happened enough times to know that. This. It’s disgusting, it’s revolting, it’s weak and Light hates it and hates his mind and hates L for making him feel this way in the first place.

It’s his fault, with his poking and prodding and inexcusable behavior and stupid black bug eyes and mind games. It’s his fault Light has to act like this, why he thinks these things at night, because L is all there is at night and so of course Light thinks about him and that’s not fair. He should be allowed some respite, ever, from this detective who does not care when he inflicts pain and does not care how he forces Light to devolve into something barely recognizable.

L’s fault. L’s fucking fault. He should be dead. Light should kill him. Tonight. Now. He could catch him off guard, easily, could pin him to the bed and strangle him and hit him and throw his body out the window and listen for the thud on the concrete far below.

It would be so satisfying. It would feel so good. And L deserves it.

He can’t, of course– if not for how he’d be caught, then because he’d tumble right out after L thanks to the handcuffs. There’s a safe with the key in the room, but obviously Light doesn’t know the code.

But he thinks about it, keeps thinking about it, feels L’s throat beneath his hands and his body warm between his thighs. And then he’s thinking about being inside L, wrecking his breathing and his body with pleasure instead of pain, but the two are very intertwined and he also thinks about blood pooling beneath them and the glint of a knife.

Light shoves a hand down, kind of trying to be subtle about it but barely, because the tiny movements of his hips against the mattress are nothing and he needs to hold himself or something. His mind runs wild, wrenches free from his perfect control even as he screams at it and all he can think is fuck L, fuck him for everything, want to fuck him stupid, fuck him dead. His fault, it’s all his fault, his fucking fault I’m like this and his fault I want to kill him. He’d never be able to fuck me good enough to forgive him.

He pictures purple bruises from his fingers, purple bruises from his mouth, bite marks oozing red, blood rising and drowning them both. He pictures straddling L’s head and pushing his cock past kiss-bitten lips, stretching that horrible accusing mouth wide, feeding him every inch until he gags and still pushing in further. He wants tears in his eyes, he’s desperate for it, for the rawness and something real and something afraid. He wants L afraid, panicked, horrified, of anything but really of him. 

Fucking show him. I’m not Kira, L doesn’t get it, he’s a horrible person, obsessed with me and convinced he’s right, I’ll fuck it out of him and leave him dead, debased, he’s nothing, I’m in control.

He feels sick, but he feels good, and he squeezes himself through the cotton of his pajamas and is mildly disgusted by the wetness he feels against his palm. L has no right, absolutely no right to inspire this reaction in him. He is a dead man walking. He is skin and bones and sugar and fucked up angles and ugly habits and a low voice that’s so annoying and not attractive and not a turn-on when it gets close to his ear.

Light thinks, what the hell is wrong with me, and then thinks, more vitriolic, what hell is wrong with HIM. Because Light has been normal, if exceptional, his whole life, he’s extremely good at it, so everything strange that’s happening to him, inside of him, must be because of L.

How did he get in? Did Light let him in? No, he would never– L forced his way in, arrogantly decided he belonged where he is most unwelcome, sidled past the brambles pricking his skin and took up residence between his throat and his heart and Light wants nothing more than to tear him out and rip him apart for having the nerve.

His thoughts are warm and bitter, burning like alcohol, buzzing in his ears along with his pulse. His hips push forward into his hand and he bites his lip, presses his face harder against the mattress, chokes back some inhuman sound.

L won’t notice. L isn’t noticing any of this. Light is being subtle and maybe he’s asleep and just dreaming about something and L won’t notice any of this anyway because he’s so stupid, because the world’s greatest detective cannot possibly be that smart if he continues to believe that Light is Kira, because he’s not and anyone who thinks that must be unfathomably dull-witted. It’s ridiculous, the suspicion– sure, Light fantasizes in graphic detail about killing him, but that wasn’t until after L put him through what pretty much amounts to torture and then chained them together. His homicidal fantasies are a natural response to that, not a preemptive measure against a detective trying to hunt him down and have him executed. 

Besides, he thinks about killing L with his bare hands, not a heart attack. Completely different. He’s not Kira.

He thinks more about fucking L, slapping his face, spanking his ass, watching blood vessels burst in the flesh and give him some color. He colors L red in his imagination, red and purple and black and blue, punches him and kicks him and bites him and fucks him so hard he screams. He thinks about L’s dick, which is probably small, smaller than his at least, dark with arousal and straining against the air between his legs and glistening at the tip, because he’s so turned on by what Light is doing to him and isn’t that pathetic, how could he want to be abused like this? Light sneers and squeezes himself again and maybe his hips jump forward a little more and maybe he can’t quite choke back the tiniest groan but it doesn’t matter because it’s into the mattress and L is stupid and busy and he won’t notice.

Light hates it. He hates all of this. After he kills L he will strangle his own mind for its insubordination. It makes him crave murder, which is fine since it’s justified, but it mixes that with pleasure and want and need and that is not fine at all, because that is weak and that is not who he is. It’s wrong, simply put. L is ugly and awful and a man and he has tortured Light and he is full of himself and he is annoying and he is horrible and he keeps Light locked in orbit around him, helpless.

He hates him because every night, Light wants to kill him more and more, and that means that every night, he gets harder and harder and it’s impossible to ignore and it’s impossible to stop himself. It feels too good, so good. His mind is not his. His body is a traitor.

He can’t really move his hand– he thinks it would be too obvious if he actually started stroking himself– so he just pushes his hips forward, thrusts a little at a time, tries to control it but the task is immense and his self-control is held taut, fraying at the edges.

Last night, he came laying on his side, hand barely squeezing himself, hips barely moving, because he was so enraptured with the mental image of his cum on L’s face, white painted over bruised purple and red cheeks and caught in eyelashes framing hollow, hollow eyes. The pleasure seized him suddenly and held him brutally still, mouth open and eyes squeezed shut and breath stolen from his lungs. L didn’t notice, obviously, too wrapped up in his stupid laptop solving whatever other cases he deemed worthy of his attention.

Light conjures up the image again, and this time his cum turns pink from mixing with the blood that drips from L’s nose, the blood oozing from his split lips, the blood spilling from the slit across his throat. He’s still alive, in the fantasy, despite the gaping wound, and he looks up at Light horrified and aroused and scared. The fear, and the blood, is really what does it for Light, which isn’t necessarily good or normal, but he reminds himself that this is about taking back control, and he has every right to crave a situation where he has the power. He deserves to picture those wide, bugged-out eyes terrified, filled with the knowledge that the man they belong to is no longer in control. Will never be in control again.

He deserves this– he deserves to take pleasure in L’s discomfort, his pain, because L has orchestrated far too much and cared far too little while he did it. He’s a joke of a detective, a mockery of justice, and that’s a thought that sends white-hot fury up Light’s spine and sharpens the image of L’s body in his mind, adds the detail of cuffs binding his hands and feet like he’d done to Light.

He isn’t justice. He isn’t righteous. He isn’t right about anything. He’s a pathetic man who abuses his power and pretends like he has all the answers when really all he does is torture and leer at innocent people like Light. He sacrificed an inmate just to prove Kira’s existence– fed him right into the waiting jaws of a serial murderer. Sure, Lind L. Tailor was going to die anyway, and deserved to for his crimes, but that doesn’t change the fact that L manipulated his last moments in a selfish, borderline sadistic test, knowing he would die, concerned only with outwitting Kira and proving himself right. He’s sick. Callous.

He’s sick, Light repeats to himself, then pictures pushing his cock inside of L.

He imagines it brutal, imagines it uncaring, paints pain onto L’s expression and composes a rasp in his shocked cry. He imagines it tight, slick with blood, satisfying in the act of violation, and it feels so good, so good to be inside L, so good to do this to him and leer down at him and take him roughly and bitterly and watch the tears prick the corners of his horrible, all-seeing eyes. Light forces the tears to fall and sighs in pleasure, pushing his hips forward, biting his lip so hard he tastes blood, and it just makes the fantasy all the more tangible. He runs his tongue over the wound, again and again, savouring every metallic drop, pretending it’s the blood on L’s lips, pouring from his neck, covering his chest and Light’s hands.

I might be sick.

He dismisses the thought as quickly as he can. It’s justified. I’m justified. I’m a good person.

Light keeps thinking about what a good person he is, and what a bad person L is, and how he’d love to rid the world of someone so filthy and rotten, and how that horrible man deserves every slap he bestows upon him in his mind, every punch and kick and slash of a knife and tightening of the chain around his neck. The world is more beautiful when L lays bleeding out beneath him.

He spasms, hand tight on himself over his pajamas, hips pushing forward once, twice more, and the pleasure builds and builds and it’s his cock in L’s throat, L’s limp body, bloody, L choking and sobbing and defeated, and Light falls over the edge with a grunt he can’t swallow, seeing white from how tightly he squeezes his eyes shut, body thrumming and cock jerking as it spills. It’s so good, feels so so good and L is so stupid and he’s as good as dead–

“Did you say my name, Light?”

No. No, no, no, no no no no no no no.

White-hot pleasure turns to ice crashing through his veins in an instant. Light lays rigid, trying to control his breathing, trying not to believe that he just heard L speak to him in that infuriating, monotone way of his. Against his will, Light thinks he detects a hint of amusement in that voice, and he doesn’t want to think at all about why that might be.

Fuck him. FUCK him, I fucking hate him, what the fuck is wrong with him–

Something pokes his shoulder. “Light?”

Light flails the arm that had been holding the pillow over his head and smacks L away harshly, desperately trying to resist the urge to pounce on him and claw his face off, or smother him and watch him suffocate. 

“No,” he growls into the mattress. God, he’s so fucking pissed off. Not only is L speaking to him in the first place, he’d chosen a moment to do it which had half ruined his orgasm– pleasant aftershocks replaced by a numb, icy terror.

Does he know? Did he realize?

“What was that? I can’t hear you from under there.”

Light’s going to kill him. For real this time. It won’t just be a fantasy anymore. He pulls his head out from under the pillow and spits, “I said no,” in L’s general direction, caustic and grating.

Those big, stupid eyes look down at him. L has his thumb pressed up to his mouth, pale face illuminated by the glow of his laptop and the moonlight filtering past the curtains. He cocks his head to the side.

“Ah, I see. It sounded like you said something.”

Light can feel how hot his face is, knows L must notice– maybe he can pass it off as just from shoving his head between the mattress and his pillow? He can explain it as trying to get away from the sound of L’s typing– yes, that’ll work, that’s reasonable enough. It’s barely even a lie.

“Well, I didn’t,” he bites out, turning his head away and dropping it onto the pillow. He shifts slowly, wincing as he pulls his hand away from where it was shoved beneath him. His pants are horribly sticky now, and it’s a cutting reminder of what he’s just done, how awfully human he is, but if he asks to go to the bathroom, he just knows L will catch on.

It kind of feels like L’s caught on already, but Light refuses to live in that reality.

“Hmm,” comes an irritating hum. “You certainly made some sort of noise.”

Why the hell isn’t he dropping this? Better off fucking dead.

“Whatever you want to think,” Light says, his face burning and his heart pounding. He doesn’t know. He can’t know.

Maybe it’s not unreasonable for a teenage boy to have to masturbate after months of surveillance. First, the solitary confinement, now this perpetually chained existence– it’s not unexpected that he would need to take care of some natural bodily functions after a while. Even if L has figured out that he was getting off, there’s no way he could possibly know what Light was thinking about. He shouldn’t be so worried.

L is the problem here, like always. It’s fucking weird of him to chain them together. Borderline predatory. And now that Light’s been forced into touching himself with an audience– with L in the room, at the very least– L is a proven creep. Light is completely innocent. Perfectly absolved.

He moves his hand to subtly wipe it on the sheets, trying to rid himself of the dampness that seeped through his pajamas. They must be stained. He’ll just have to hope he can get them into the laundry before L notices anything tomorrow.

“Defensive,” L murmurs, and Light’s fingers twitch. “I wonder what you were thinking about.”

“What?” Light says before he can help it, and seethes over how prickly it comes out. Just proving L right. He has to get a hold of himself. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

He hears a light exhale that passes for a laugh. “No? That probably would have made it difficult.”

No. No. No no no.

Light props himself up on his elbows, turns his head back towards L, narrows his eyes. He shouldn’t take the bait, he shouldn’t fall for this–

“What do you mean?” he says evenly.

L returns the stare, the corners of his mouth curved slightly upwards, his thumb pressing against his bottom lip. “I mean,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining something extremely simple to someone very stupid, “that it would be difficult to cum if you weren’t thinking of anything. Unless you’re that proficient in the act of self-stimulation?”

Ringing in his ears. Blood roaring through his veins. Light’s fingers tighten on the pillow and he fights his breath, tries to keep it calm.

“Excuse me?” he snaps, sharp, acerbic. “That’s fucking disgusting, Ryuzaki. Why would I ever– make myself– why would I get off– with you right there? What’s wrong with you? I should report you to my father for even suggesting it. He’ll demand you remove the handcuffs right there– and then I won’t have to deal with you being a fucking creep anymore.”

L seems amused, and Light is furious. “No more prime suspect,” he continues, righteous, “all because you couldn’t help fantasizing about me masturbating next to you– you’re a fucking pervert, Ryuzaki. This is predatory behavior, you know. I’m only eighteen– I have no idea how old you even are.”

He’s glaring at L, chest heaving in indignation, spitting the words like acid. L bites his nail, glances down Light’s body even though he can’t see any proof since Light is on his front and half-covered in sheets anyway.

“Very defensive,” L says after a moment. Light wants to bite the smirk off his lips. “You wouldn’t mind turning over and proving that, then? I’d feel terrible accusing you of something you weren’t guilty of.”

Oh, fuck him. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“You willingly placed yourself in solitary confinement to prove your innocence, but you won’t turn over to establish that you didn’t just have an orgasm? It’ll seem to me like I’m correct, you know.”

“You just want an excuse to look at my dick. Fucking freak.”

“Who said anything about you pulling yourself out of your pants? I imagine the evidence would be quite obvious either way just from simple observation.”

It would be. Painfully obvious. The sticky mess in his pajamas is uncomfortable and will be abundantly clear if Light turns over. He has to think of a way out of this. He hates L so much.

“I don’t feel comfortable,” Light says slowly, pushing the words past gritted teeth, “doing that.”

L’s grin sharpens and he lets out a hum that makes Light want to strangle him. “Oh? I suppose I got it right, then–”

“Not because I was… doing anything,” Light interrupts, his face on fire, “I just think you’re a pervert and I don’t want you looking at me. I’m already in bed chained to you. You can keep your fucking eyes to yourself.”

L sighs, reminiscent of an exasperated adult talking to a petulant child. Light bristles at the thought. He is not–

“Lie to me all you want, Light. I do wonder, though, if you lie to yourself just as much.”

With that, Light slams his head back into the pillow, pointedly turning away. “Good night, Ryuzaki.”

He’s seething. Images from before bubble up in his mind and Light finds them comforting, reassuring in the darkness, the idea of L’s head rolling away from his body, the sound of blood rushing from open wounds. Yes, that’s what he deserves. He’s a horrible man, a reprehensible human being.

Barely a human being. He’s something worse. More unforgivable.

There’s the tapping of keys again, and Light lets himself sink into his violent thoughts, trying to lull himself to sleep. He needs it to be tomorrow. He needs out. Out of the handcuffs, out of this bed, out of this fucked-up relationship with a man who understands him far too intimately. Light will never forgive him for that.

He’s finally starting to feel tired when L speaks up again.

“Surely you realize that your behavior indicates you’re hiding something. I wouldn’t judge you for needing some physical relief, especially at your age, and I would imagine you know that. I’m not surprised you were too embarrassed– no, maybe too prideful– to ask, but it is curious how you decided to go about it. It’s almost like you couldn’t stop yourself.”

His voice is quiet, almost musing to himself, but it’s obvious that Light is meant to hear it. Light clenches his jaw.

“Grinding into the mattress with your head under the pillow, holding yourself but not moving your hand… obviously trying to be subtle, but overtaken by passion and clearly revealing yourself. Not only that, but ashamed. I don’t think you wanted to be doing that in the first place. I can only wonder, was it due to my presence? Or due to the presence of arousal at all?”

Light can’t look at him. He’ll kill him. “Will you shut up.”

“No,” L says easily. “I think you became aroused by something you don’t want to admit turns you on. I can only speculate what that might be, but I am fascinated by your reaction to it. You’ve been so vitriolic to me not just because I spoke to you after you finished masturbating, but also because you’re terrified I’ll figure out what you were thinking of.”

Silence for a few moments. Light can hear his heartbeat loud in his ears.

“You know, you required remarkably little stimulation to finish last night. I can only conclude there was something very, very arousing in your mind.”

No. NO. Last night, too? How long has he–

“I don’t know what you mean,” he squeaks, and hates himself for it. “Stop fucking talking. I’ll– I’ll–”

“Kill me?” It’s low, sardonic, dipped in sugar.

Light’s cock twitches and he wants to scream. 

Who is he right now? Is he Light Yagami, put-upon son of police chief Soichiro Yagami and generally helpful and kind? Hardly. Is he Kira, unrepentant mass-murderer extraordinaire? No, he can’t be. Is he just a boy in the dark with horrible thoughts and a horrible man chained to him who seems intent on exhuming every nook and cranny of his psyche?

Yes. Yes, he might be that.

And no. He’s exhausted.

“I’ll report you,” Light mumbles, unconvincing.

“Kira wants me dead,” L says, like it’s a revelation. “You hate being chained to me. Do you want me dead, Light?”

Yes. “Of course not.”

“You’d be able to touch yourself freely if I was out of the picture. Is that appealing to you?”

“It wouldn’t–” and he snaps his mouth shut quickly, furious that he’d even let those two words out. That’s as good as admitting he has been getting off, and it also might lead L to realize what he’s been thinking about while doing so. But L is stupid enough to think he’s Kira– maybe he won’t catch on.

It wouldn’t be the same if you were already dead. It wouldn’t be as good. It’s a somewhat horrific thought.

He’s not looking at L, but the beat of silence reads as surprise. Oh, now he’s caught the world’s greatest detective off guard? Fucking great.

“It wouldn’t…” L rolls the words over his tongue, “it wouldn’t…? I don’t suppose you’ll do me the courtesy of finishing that sentence.”

Light doesn’t respond.

“It wouldn’t matter? It wouldn’t help?” L works through it out loud, clearly not interested in giving Light a moment of leeway. “It wouldn’t… be… the same?”

Light’s shoulders tense ever so slightly. Fuck.

“Light, do you… enjoy getting off while chained to me?”

Oh, thank god. Light can’t help a sound between a laugh and a scoff. That’s a ridiculous idea if he’s ever heard one. Should he let L believe it? Whatever– as long as L doesn’t touch on the truth, he’s welcome to think anything he’d like.

“No. You’re a fucking pervert, Ryuzaki, to think something like that. Is that why you put the handcuffs on us in the first place?”

“Hmm.”

More typing. And then:

“I can understand the appeal– a sort of exhibitionist tendency, combined with a sense of shame and humiliation… a potent aphrodisiac. You don’t want to be turned on while chained to the detective L, someone who has wronged you so thoroughly, but at the same time, you are bound in a situation you cannot escape, and the thrill of potentially being caught could lead you to being unable to stop yourself… of course, it would all depend on how susceptible you are to your own pleasure. Whatever your fantasy, you certainly seem to get caught up in it…”

The words come softly, as if he’s only talking to himself, but Light isn’t stupid. His blood boils and he rolls over to face L, careful to keep himself hidden under the sheets.

“You need to stop fucking talking about this,” he hisses, icy. “You’re insane. There’s something deeply wrong with you.”

L glances down at him, then returns his gaze to the laptop in front of him. That makes Light even more furious. He can’t even be bothered to look at Light when he finally turns to face him? He’ll wring his fucking neck–

“Thank you for sharing your observations, Light, but I’m well aware of that. I don’t intend to stop until I figure this out. Are you going to do anything to try and make me?” L pauses for a moment and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “Perhaps you could try asking politely?”

Like hell would he ask politely. L is being a perverted freak, showing once again his utter disregard for boundaries or human decency, and he does not deserve any level of kindness in the way he is spoken to. Light grits his teeth and wonders if it would be faster to choke him out or just punch him in the mouth until his teeth scatter from his head.

L must take his silence as an admission of defeat, because he keeps talking.

“Your animosity indicates that I am likely involved in some way in your fantasy. Whether that’s a byproduct of my presence and the chain, exciting you as I previously hypothesized, or I play a more active role… well, it would certainly explain why you aren’t happy about your arousal. I can’t imagine you intended to become attracted to me–”

Now L shuts up, because Light has jolted upright and slapped a hand over his mouth. His nails dig into L’s cheek and he can’t even bring himself to care if it leaves marks– in fact, he hopes it does– because all he can think is fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Light spits out, acidic, pushing L’s laptop away with his other hand and hearing it clatter on the floor. It’s probably broken, at least a little, and there’s a sort of childish glee in the thought of destroying something of L’s. He grips L’s face in his hand, fingers pressing hard into the skin, and it fills him with something giddy and unsettling.

L’s eyes are wide, watching him intensely, but not afraid– curious, more than anything, pleased with himself for provoking a reaction. Fuck him. I’ll show him.

“I hate you,” Light breathes, leaning in close, searching L’s face for a single sign of weakness, any minute crack in his facade. “I hate you so much. You think you’re so brilliant. You think you have the right to do anything you fucking want. You put cameras in my home, made my father point a gun at my head, now you handcuff me to you and watch my every move, all to try and prove I’m Kira? And how has that gone for you? Oh, right– you can’t fucking prove anything. Because I’m not Kira.”

L is trying to respond, his mouth moving under Light’s hand, but he just holds tighter and uses his other hand to shove L down on the bed until he’s laying on his back. L’s hands come up, one trying to grab Light’s arm to pull him off, but Light catches his wrist and pins it above his head, his forearm forcing down L’s other arm.

L still doesn’t look afraid. Light sneers, moving to kneel beside him, putting all his weight into keeping L pinned down.

“Now you’re convinced I’ve been jerking off to the thought of you? Why the fuck would I ever think about you when I touch myself? God, you’re so fucking stupid, Ryuzaki. L.” Light savors the name on his tongue, running it over his teeth, feeling it start in his lungs and fill his mouth. “L, the great detective– can’t admit he’s wrong about who Kira is, so obsessed with himself he imagines his prime suspect must orgasm to the thought of him. What a vile creature.”

The insults feel so good on his tongue, so satisfying to finally speak out loud, that he can’t stop them pouring from his mouth, and he can vaguely feel his dick stirring to partial hardness in response, but he’s trying not to think about that right now. L just stares up at him, unblinking. If Light isn’t careful, if he gets too close, he’ll fall into those black-hole eyes.

Light cannot escape a black hole, after all. Nothing can.

“Such a fucking freak, god, it’s a nightmare to be trapped with you all the time. You’re awful, an awful person– ugly, too, you know, you couldn’t have done me the courtesy of having a bearable face?– and all you do is watch and needle and eat all that goddamn sugar– I’m shocked you’re still alive, with that diet. You’re annoying, god you’re so fucking annoying, I can’t believe no one’s killed you yet– at least Kira’s trying.”

He’s coming dangerously close to his traitorous mouth spilling the truth. Light presses his lips together in a thin line, glares down at L because it’s his fault, fuck him, Light wishes he could take a razor wire to his throat or a hammer to his skull or a crowbar to his sternum– he wants to unspool L’s guts from his torso, cut a mocking Glasgow smile into his cheeks, pierce a hook through the back of his neck and hang him from the ceiling until his body stops twitching.

There’s a sharp pain in his palm and Light jerks his hand back with a hiss, glancing down at bite marks freshly applied, then turns his narrow eyes back on L. L’s mouth is curled in a cold smile, a sparkle of amusement in his dead eyes.

“Thank you,” L says, “for your honesty, Light.”

Light slaps him across the face.

He almost moans at the feeling, the sting in his palm, the way L’s head jerks to the side. L’s mouth hangs open in a frown, brow furrowed, but then he slowly turns to look back up at Light. 

And fucking smirks.

Light hits him again.

He’s quickly becoming addicted to it, this feeling he’d previously only imagined, and he’s rapidly hardening in his pants. He’s punched L before, sure, but slapping feels so much more sharp and intimate, something he instantly begins to crave. Light stares down at L, eyes fixed on the red blooming over half-crescent marks dug into his cheek. 

He wants to lick it. He wants to hit him again and again and again until he coaxes blood from the skin, until L sobs and begs him to stop. He doesn’t know if he would.

He grabs L’s face again, yanking his head so he’s looking up at Light, pulls down his jaw to force open his mouth, leans down, and spits into it.

L’s eyes go wide with a genuine surprise that Light savors, nearly cackles at. What, L, couldn’t predict that?

Then, he closes his mouth, maintaining simmering eye contact, and swallows.

Light’s cock stiffens to full hardness instantly and he can’t hold back his own shocked expression. He’s breathing heavily, he notices in the silence, ragged panting that might be giving him away. Maybe it could just be because he’s angry– and he is– but L probably knows better than that.

“You’re acting like Kira would, Light,” L breathes. His face is inscrutable. Light hates him.

He snarls, hand releasing L’s jaw and moving instead to wrap his fingers around that long, delicate throat. He feels L’s pulse, elevated but not enough, feels the warmth of his skin, and his hand twitches with restraint, holding back on the urge to crush his windpipe, press hard on his arteries, until L’s eyes roll back in his head and he falls limp beneath him.

He’s pictured it so many times. He could do it now. It would feel so good.

Instead, because he is perfectly able to control himself, Light leans in close. “If I was Kira–” he brushes his lips over L’s, grabs his bottom lip roughly between his teeth and pulls, then releases, “–I’d kill you right now.”

L’s breathing hitches, just slightly, just for a moment, but it’s so good Light nearly moans. That’s right– he’s affecting L now, he’s breaking him apart, he’s finding the cracks in his impenetrable defenses and tearing them down. He’ll get L to shatter. He needs it like he needs air.

“Is that so?” L’s voice is quiet, on the edge of breathy, his eyes round and hungry. “How would you do it?”

And that does pull a sound from Light’s throat, and he throws one leg over L’s waist, fully leaning over him now, mouths bumping together from momentum but not kissing him– just hovering, just out of reach, still in control. Light is in control.

“I’d crush your fucking throat. Strangle you with the chain. Watch your eyes bug out and your lips turn blue.” Light’s words are quick whispers against L’s lips, sultry and biting all at once. “I’d enjoy feeling you struggle beneath me, trying to pull me off, trying to stop me– but you wouldn’t be able to stop me, would you, L? Maybe you’d like feeling your life slip away under my fingers.”

L exhales slowly, eyelids fluttering, and for the first time Light considers that L might genuinely be the freak he’s been accusing him of being. He’d thought L was just antagonizing him for the sake of getting any reaction at all– now, Light’s beginning to think he likes this. Wanted it, even.

“95%,” L says, and Light kisses him.

It’s not kind, nor gentle, nor slow. It’s fierce and furious and full of teeth and they both gasp into it, lips moving fast and tongues shoving into each other’s mouths. Light’s fingers tighten slightly on L’s neck and he settles his body on top of L’s torso, letting him feel with certainty how hard Light is. From the way L’s hips are pushing up behind him, he imagines L is dealing with a similar situation, but he doesn’t care enough to move back and give him the friction he’s seeking.

Light pulls away from L’s mouth to drag his tongue across his cheek, feeling the heat of burst blood vessels beneath his skin, and pushes his face through wild black hair to bite at L’s ear. “I knew it,” he growls, even though he didn’t, “you just want me to fuck you, isn’t that right? You want me to kill you?”

“Yes,” L gasps, turning his head to the side, and Light takes advantage of the opportunity to bite his way along L’s jaw, licking a stripe back up once he gets to his chin. “Kira– oh, fuck–”

Light sits back and lets go of L’s neck to bring his hand hard across his face again, dragging a whine out of that chokeable throat. “I’m not Kira,” he spits down at him.

“Please be,” says L, eyes wide and shining, “please be him. You’re doing so good. I want more.”

He can feel L’s hardness poking against his ass now that he’s sat back and scoffs, slipping his hand up L’s shirt just to rake his nails down his chest. “You fucking freak. No wonder you don’t want to catch Kira anymore. You want to fuck him.”

“Only if it’s you,” L mumbles, hips rutting up, neck long and exposed. His tongue feels over his lips, bitten and swollen, and he stares up at Light with an eagerness that almost makes him feel sick.

It turns him on just as much, unfortunately.

In the process of sitting up and slapping L again, he released his hold on L’s arms, and he now runs both hands down L’s sides, shoving his shirt up and exposing pink nipples and raised, angry lines left by his nails. Light shifts back, settles himself directly on top of L’s crotch, and groans softly at the hot feeling of them pressing against each other.

L’s hands fly to his waist and he pulls Light down harshly, grinding them together, his mouth falling open in a moan. Light can’t help but gasp at the jolt of pleasure, but immediately grabs L’s hands and yanks them away, eyes narrowed.

“You don’t have permission to touch me,” he snaps, “You keep your hands where they were. Worthless fucking slut.”

The words are unfamiliar, but they taste good on his tongue, sharp and degrading. L’s eyes glitter and he clearly debates for a moment whether he wants to listen, but ends up obeying, returning his hands to rest above his head.

“Yes, Kira,” he purrs. “Please tell me more about how you’ll kill me.”

Light clenches his jaw, thrusts himself against L in short, frantic bursts, nearly dizzy from how good it all feels. He doesn’t want to admit how much being called Kira affects him– it’s ridiculous, he shouldn’t like it, he’s not Kira– but the way L says it, like worship, makes his head spin.

He keeps one hand on L’s waist and trails the other up his neck and to his mouth, tracing two fingers over his lips before pushing them through, into wetness and warmth. “Suck,” he demands, and feels lightheaded when L does. He bobs his head on the fingers, swirls his tongue around them, looks at Light hungrily from under his lashes.

“I’m not Kira,” Light pants, and L rolls his eyes, “but if I was, I’d rip your heart from your chest. I’d– haa– pry open your ribcage and pop your lungs.”

He pulls out of L’s mouth with a wet pop and admires the trail of spit stretching from L’s lips to the tips of his fingers. He brings the slick digits to L’s right nipple, teasingly circling it. L lets out a shuddering breath, back arching to push his chest into Light’s touch.

“I’d fuck you while holding a knife to your stomach. I’d–” he pinches L’s nipple, pulls it up and twists it, and L bucks up against him with a moan, “–hah!– make you wonder if I was going to kill you before I let you cum. Or while you did. La petite mort– would you like to die cumming on my cock, L?”

“You’d fuck me to death,” L says, eyes glazed over, half-lidded, “You’d stop my heart when I came.”

God, it’s so good– those words genuinely falling from L’s lips, low and reverberating in the darkness, seeping into his mind and taking hold. He’s not fantasizing anymore. L really said that. And Light’s really on top of him, grinding down, both of them throbbing. Light needs him, needs more– it’s too good, everything is too good–

“Yeah, that’s right. And you’d fucking like it.” It’s breathy, punched out of him. Light ducks his head down to take L’s other nipple between his lips, dragging his tongue over the stiff nub and grinning at the whine he hears in response. He bites roughly, pinching at the same time, and L writhes beneath him, thrusting up.

“Fuck! Ah– Light, please–”

“I thought I was Kira?” Light speaks mockingly against L’s chest, moving off his nipple to suck at his pale skin harshly. He wants to leave L littered with marks, needs to make this unforgettable.

“Nnh, oh– Kira–”

“God, you’re fucking disgusting.” Another bite, another pinch, more rough sucking until L’s chest is dotted with purple bruises and he looks utterly wrecked beneath Light. His chest heaves, face flushed, eyes misty. He’s never looked more beautiful.

Light can’t help but compare the image to the many he’s conjured in his mind in the past, and finds that none of them even come close to how this sight makes him feel.

He’s quickly losing it, he finds. Because he certainly had some semblance of control at the start of this– obviously, he chose for this to happen– but the sight of L like this, the sound of the words and the moans coming from his lips, is imparting a fogginess into his mind that starts to move his body without his permission. Light’s hips move greedily, an imitation of fucking L, hot friction sparking at the connection between them. God, he could never have imagined this.

L– does he look better like this, with a beautifully red cheek and bruise-marbled chest, or would he look better hanging from a noose? Could Light drop to his knees and suck him off while his body choked and spasmed?

God, fuck. 

“Take your pants off,” Light orders, scrambling off of L to do the same himself. With the pajamas, he quickly wipes away the remnants of his cum from before, and tosses them vaguely in the direction of the laundry basket. He doesn’t care where they land.

L obeys, his fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans– insane that he wears jeans in bed– and shoves them down his legs, kicking them off the bed along with his boxers. He’s hard and glistening, and Light realizes with a jolt of displeasure that L is bigger than him– not by too much, but still, it pisses him off. And it’s not like Light is tiny or anything, he’s… well, you know. Average. Perfectly respectable.

He finds himself between long, pale legs, hands lifting silky thighs, shoving them up into a newly kiss-bitten chest, hips stuttering as the head of his cock brushes against a tight entrance. It’s so enticing, so warm, practically sucking him in, gravity pulling him closer– a small part of him wonders about things like lube and preparation, but the overwhelming majority of him frankly does not give a shit, and honestly wants it to hurt.

God, does he want it to hurt. He wants to see L cry.

Light spits on his hand, strokes himself a few times– smears precum against L, spits on his hole too just for the sake of it. It’s a mocking semblance of effort, enough to let L know how little he cares, and he spares a glance at that beautifully bruised face– not bruised enough, I need to hit him more– to see his reaction.

L’s eyes are slitted, head leaned back, throat far too pristine, one hand still above his head while the other pokes a finger between his teeth. He’s grinning, or something like it anyway, tongue peeking out in the space next to his fingertip.

“You’ll hurt me, Kira,” he drawls, seemingly not caring an ounce. “Aren’t you going to ask if I have lube anywhere? Aren’t you going to open me up first?”

There’s an opportunity here for Light to snap out of this frenzy he’s worked himself into– he could nod, try to be a decent sexual partner, pretend to give a shit about L’s comfort. He could be a good person. He could try.

He won’t.

He can’t.

“No,” Light hisses, pressing himself against L, on the verge of penetration. “You’ll take what I give you and you’ll thank me for it. Isn’t this what you wanted? Fucking whore.”

He might be shaking. L’s grin stretches wider, like he knows something Light doesn’t, and it makes his blood boil, shoots fury through his veins, sets his skin on fire. 

“You’ll like it,” Light says, part accusatory, part a last desperate reassurance to himself. He’ll like it. He wants this. He shouldn’t care either way– he’s decided L deserves whatever Light inflicts on him– but something in the back of his head is writhing and screaming and he absolutely needs it to shut up.

“Does it matter to you, Kira? What if I told you I didn’t want it?”

Light snaps his hips forward, breaching L in a quick motion, and moans at the same time L lets out a cry of pain. His grin has vanished and his face is screwed up, his hand above his head fisting in the pillow, and oh god, oh god it feels so good. He doesn’t care if L bleeds. He doesn’t care if he cries, thrashes, bites, screams. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, feeling L clench around the head of his cock, watching his head snap from side to side as his breath comes quick and sharp.

“You want it,” he pants, voice trembling. He’s overwhelmed, even with just the tip inside, because this is so much better than any fantasy. “You fucking want it. You’ll thank me for it.”

L isn’t saying anything, just panting and biting down on his finger and gripping the pillow above his head, so Light starts to press further in, slowly but insistently. He’ll make L cry. He needs L to cry. He needs him to break.

He’ll use L for his own pleasure– physical stimulation, yes, but also the mental pleasure of ruining him. Light thinks about how much he deserves this. After everything L has done to him, Light deserves to take him and abuse him as much as he desires, deserves to bend him in half and press into him raw, with no preparation and a laughable amount of saliva to ease the violation. 

He’s justified. He’s a good person.

Light’s halfway in and both of them are breathing raggedly. L’s face twitches through pained expressions, but Light can see his erection hasn’t flagged in the slightest- if anything, the intrusion has spilled more precum from its tip, and Light can’t help a breathless scoff.

He props one of L’s legs over his shoulder and removes his hand from that thigh to trail a mocking finger down L’s twitching cock, from the slit to the base. L gasps at the small touch, his hips canting up for a moment, seeking more, but the movement forces Light farther in and L grunts in pain, his expression tight.

“So… so eager, huh, L?” Light aims for derisive and cruel, but the newfound pressure around his cock makes the words weaker than he intended. Just that fact brews more rage inside of him, fury at the notion that L has affected him in any way. “A tiny little touch to your pathetic cock and you can’t help yourself. I knew you were a fucking slut. Knew… knew you wanted this.”

“Kira enjoys being cruel,” L mumbles. Light grits his teeth. “Kira is a sadist. Is that why he kills?”

Light leans forward, hand flashing from L’s dick to wrap around his throat. He stares down at L’s face, savoring the honesty of pain, finding pleasure in the furrow of a normally smooth brow. L is so tight that it’s stealing his breath, his thoughts, his rationality. He’ll make him cry. Light has never needed anything more than making the man beneath him cry.

Light will break him.

He squeezes L’s neck with trembling fingers. He deserves this. Both of them– this is exactly what should be happening. God, it feels so good.

“I wouldn’t know,” Light says. Grunts, really. “You look like you want more.”

He pushes in farther and L hisses. His body is tense, pulse thrumming hard under Light’s fingers, and he grips him tighter. The feeling of L’s life under his hand, the hot reality of his body beneath and around him, makes him groan, broken and desperate. He’s never felt anything like this before.

“God, fuck.” Farther in, half a centimeter at a time. It’s overwhelming. L’s breaths are shallow, and when he swallows Light feels it intimately in his palm.

“Light–” L rasps, voice weak, eyes growing wild. His hands come down to scrabble at Light’s wrist, trying to pry Light’s fingers off him. 

Light grins, sudden, insane, and tightens his fingers. L chokes, splutters, tries to gasp. His lips form the word Light again, soundless this time.

“Oh, fuck,” it’s so fucking good, L struggling beneath him, he’s harder than he’s ever been, body tight and focused. “Oh my god, fuck, you want me to stop, huh? Fucking take it.”

L shakes his head, grip strong on Light’s wrist. It hurts a little, but Light doesn’t care. “Ki… ra,” he manages to wheeze out, and Light laughs breathlessly. He snaps his hips forward, bottoming out, and loosens his grip on L’s neck just a bit, enough to hear the pained cry that spills from his mouth.

“Stupid fucking detective,” he moans, words falling quick and thoughtless, “God, I hate you so much. Can’t fucking stand you, oh god, taking me like a whore. Bet you fucking like this, don’t you? Even though it hurts?”

Light pulls his hips back halfway, thrusts in deep again, and then doubles over, folding L in half, as the pleasure mounts, overwhelms him, and suddenly he’s cumming harder than he’s ever cum in his life, whimpering, filling L with warm fluid that would have done wonders to ease the initial penetration. He shudders, hand going completely slack on L’s throat. His body feels fuzzy, head floating somewhere above it, acute sensation narrowed down to his cock pulsing inside a tight hole growing slick.

The silence is broken only by his shaky, panting breaths, and then, growing louder, L’s wheezing laughter.

“Kira just– was this Kira’s first time?” L cackles, hoarse and creaking, and it’s so loud and irritating next to Light’s ear that he wants to grab L’s collar and smash his skull to pieces against the headboard.

The humiliation stings, raw and grating against his ego. His body is hot, itching. Light is not the type of person to get a thrust and a half into sex before spilling uncontrollably. He’s not the sort to get so overwhelmed he– he–

“Poor little Light,” comes L’s crooning voice, so frustratingly even despite the damage Light’s done to his throat. “Were you expecting to impress me with your performance? You were doing so well until you went inside.”

Light’s face burns, down to his chest and the tips of his ears. He expected– he thought– just because he was a virgin–

“Does Kira kill out of an effort to make up for his sexual incompetence?” L muses, as if that makes any sense at all.

“Shut the fuck up,” Light says, and is horrified when it comes out wet. He tries to blink the tears away, but more fill his eyes quickly, hot and uncomfortable. “Shut up.”

“Oh, darling. Is Kira embarrassed?” L coos. His hands touch Light gently, one running along his back, the other petting atop his head. He makes annoying shushing sounds, and the whole thing is so overtly patronizing that Light feels compelled into the quickest violent action he can muster, which turns out to be burying his face in L’s neck and biting as hard as he can.

L’s condescending shushes turn into a strangled gasp, and his hips jerk up, hand tightening in Light’s hair instantly. Light hisses at the sensation of L moving on his overly sensitive cock, halfway softened, but he tries to ignore that in favor of lapping at the blood he’s managed to coax from L’s skin. The taste of it temporarily blocks his embarrassment from his mind. It’s not as sweet as strawberry syrup, but it’s as sweet as blood can probably get, over metal and salt. 

“I hate you,” Light croaks out, trying to ignore how pathetic it sounds, and flattens his tongue over the bite mark. The divots he’s left in L’s skin are so satisfying. Light needs to keep tasting his blood. It’s all he has.

“So you’ve said,” L says, a little breathier and shakier than Light imagines he intended. He shifts beneath Light, and Light somewhat mindlessly gives him enough room to lower his legs, resting his feet on the bed to either side with knees bent. He’s still inside L, and it’s starting to get uncomfortable, but pulling out feels like losing and he refuses to give in.

Light keeps his mouth on L’s neck, feeling idly vampiric as he sucks down every drop of blood that releases from his skin. One of his hands rests next to L’s head, while the other pats the side of L’s face clumsily, caressing where Light hit him before. The skin is still hot. Light drags his nails across L’s cheek, smiling into his neck when he hears a sharp inhale and long exhale.

“Ah– hmm. Abusing me is quite stimulating for you,” says L, quietly thoughtful, infuriating and far too put-together for someone Light thought he would shatter. “I wonder if that’s what your previous fantasy was. It seems… probable, given recent events.”

Hand stilling, Light tenses. His humiliation creeps back in, and he becomes aware of the gentle suckling his mouth has been performing on L’s neck. He also becomes aware that, despite everything, L has not pushed him away. One of his hands rests at Light’s waist, which does not feel kind of nice, while the other still threads through his hair, looser but not lax in the slightest.

“Well, you’ll be happy to know I’m still in a great deal of pain. Does that please Kira?”

“Not Kira,” Light mumbles weakly, L’s blood on his tongue, the hideous remnants of tears in his eyes.

L laughs again, harsh, sandpaper scraping over rocks. “Oh! Please, forgive me. It just seemed as though you might be, given your detailed homicidal descriptions and eagerness to fuck me as painfully as you could. That just seemed like something Kira might do.”

Tears frustratingly renewed, Light kind of wants to kill them both. He should revisit his earlier idea of strangling L and throwing him out the window. This time he won’t mind going over the edge after him. “I–”

“Shhh,” L soothes, but Light can hear the smirk in his voice. His thumb rubs circles on Light’s hipbone, a mockery of comfort. “Shh, it’s okay, Light. I understand, you want to kill me, right? I bet it felt so good to have a hand around my throat. You just couldn’t help yourself, hm?”

He’s hunched over L, still buried inside him, but Light has the distinct and unpleasant feeling that any control he’d once commanded has long since been wrenched away. The way L is talking now– condescending, patronizing, voice rough yet velvety– it stings, Light hates it, and yet… it wraps him up, keeps him safe. L is holding him close. Light hates him and wants him dead and L is holding onto him and keeping his pieces from falling apart.

“My face stings,” L murmurs, turning his head to nose into brown hair, his lips brushing Light’s ear. He shivers. “But the slaps felt good. They felt good for you too, right? I saw how you looked when you hit me. Rapturous. And the nails on my chest– that pain was… sharp. Felt like it was cutting right down to my bones. Were you trying to claw your way into my heart? How intimate.”

It’s his voice, low and rumbling. It’s the way he’s gripping Light’s hair, keeping him exactly where he wants him, and how his hand on Light’s hip holds tight and starts to push and pull, ever so slightly. Encouraging Light to rock in and out. Light’s body follows suit before his mind even registers it.

L is plenty slick now, thanks to… and Light is still horribly sensitive, but he never fully softened, and L is letting him go slow, so Light allows it to happen, even as something like a sob tears from his throat.

“Shh, Kira, darling,” a smirk against his ear, and L’s tongue comes out for a moment to lick along the shell, “doesn’t it feel good to take the detective L like this? Your enemy? If nothing else, I am someone who has tormented Light Yagami for months according to my whims. And you made it clear how you feel about that, didn’t you? Pushing into me so violently… I’m still so tense. It still aches, all because of you.”

Light lets out an embarrassing, soft sound, face buried in L’s neck, muscles in his abdomen and thighs flexing as he pushes forward, pulls back, slow, hazy. The tightness, the wetness, L’s voice like a candle in the dark, pendulum on a string, coax him back into hardness. He can’t quite tell how he feels about it. 

Oh, but it’s good, isn’t it? It’s the least L can do for him. It’s the least he can do for L.

“I wanted to hurt you,” he finds himself whispering. L pets his hair, encouraging. “I… always want to hurt you. Rip your guts out and hang you with them like a noose. See you–” he lets out a breathy moan, feels L smile, “see you fucking– fucking hacked apart. I hate you. I hate you.”

L raises his own hips in time with Light’s weak thrusting, lets out a quiet, pleased noise. “Yes, that’s right,” he says, teeth pulling at the edge of Light’s ear. “Such a good boy. Please, tell me more. What were you thinking about before I interrupted you earlier?”

“I was–” Light pushes in harder, bites L’s neck again before he can answer. His body is so hot and his thoughts are all jumbled. L’s hand on his hip keeps guiding him, in and out, in and out. Keeping him in orbit. “I… I thought about killing you. Felt… good.”

“Mmm.” L breathes out a pleasured sound that stiffens Light instantly. His rocking hips start to develop more of an intent, seeking. “Is that right? You must really like the thought. Is that what you think about every night?”

He’s beyond the horror, the humiliation he should be feeling. “Yes,” Light moans, falling deep into instinct. Vaguely, he’s not sure he should be letting L drag this out of him. “All different ways. Lots… lots of choking.”

“Good,” L praises, and it makes him feel warm, floaty. It’s all unreal, in the dark, at night. This barely feels like it’s happening. “Anything specific?”

He’s panting against L’s neck, thrusts increasing in vigor, and L makes small noises beneath him. “Cum on your bruised face, knife in your– fucking stomach. You choke on my cock until the life drains from your eyes. Oh–”

L gasps, hand pulling at Light’s hair. “Right there,” he groans, head lolling to the other side. “Fuck, be a good boy and keep– fuck me just like that, yes…”

Light moans, nods, does his best to comply. One of L’s legs wraps around the back of his thighs, pulling him in harder. Light’s mouth works over L’s neck, kissing, sucking, biting, devouring. Every sound he can pull from L’s throat is a victory. The tightness feels so good, it feels right, and when Light opens his eyes and pulls back enough to see L’s pale skin red and bruised by his doing, he shudders.

He runs fingers along L’s neck, over skin made wet by saliva, and presses hard into the deep bite mark he left in the crook near his shoulder. L lets out a pained, pleasured whine, face screwed up in intense feeling. Light watches that expression, enraptured by such notable emotion on L’s normally impassive face. 

“You like this,” Light says, not as accusatory as before. He grabs L’s chin, forces him to look up until their eyes meet. Hips press forward, pull back, harder, faster, right where L wants him. “Feels good being fucked like this, huh? By– ngh, ah– someone who wants you dead?”

“Someone who wants to kill me himself,” L murmurs, something almost loving in his tone. He looks overly pleased with the situation, with the way events have unfolded throughout the night. 

Light wants to fuck him so hard he screams and claw red gashes across his skin. He also wants to just listen and do exactly what L tells him. It’s an uncomfortable conflict that he’s never had to worry about in any of his fantasies.

Despite Light being on top, L’s eyes have him pinned down firmly. He keeps moving his hips, or maybe his hips keep moving on their own, according to L’s will, as he stares down into darkness fathoms deep. Gray like a foggy moor ringing abyssal pitch, and smudged bruising underneath that Light has always found hopelessly alluring.

Light can’t imagine what his own face is doing. It’s too dark to see himself reflected in L’s pupils. He has half a mind to be grateful for that fact.

“It– ah– feels better with lubrication,” deadpans L, “thank you for providing your own.”

His face burns, hand slips back down to L’s now beautifully bruised throat. Strawberries mottling frosting. “I’ll choke you again,” he hisses, “shut up.”

“Mm, careful,” L says, eyes crinkling even though his mouth doesn’t smile. “Do you want to finish again so soon?”

Light groans, bites his lip and looks away. He rolls his hips steadily, trying to punch more sounds from L, trying to weaken him. He’s beginning to doubt L will ever break. It’s so frustrating he could cry. Again. He could scream.

Instead of doing that, he makes a quick decision and looks back down at L, who hasn’t stopped watching him, and lowers his head to catch him in a kiss. L makes a little surprised grunt, but responds eagerly, opening up his mouth to let their lips slide together. Light closes his eyes and trails his hand from L’s neck downward, over the fabric of his shirt, across his stomach. Fingers play in the trail of hair beneath L’s navel for a second, before he finds what he was searching for.

He wraps his hand around L decisively, brain split between thrusting and kissing and starting a new rhythm with his wrist. L moans low into his mouth, arching forward into the contact, and his tongue presses into Light’s mouth insistently. Light can barely focus enough on it to respond, the rest of his attention dedicated to slicking L’s cock with his precum and figuring out where it’s best to squeeze.

Hot, tight pressure around him clenches even more with Light’s ministrations. He responds with his own whine into L’s mouth, the kiss growing sloppier as they rut against each other, near mindless. “Fuck,” is all Light’s eloquence comes up with, and L half-smiles against his lips but seems more preoccupied with moaning and responding to Light’s thrusts with the cant of his hips.

“Fuck,” Light repeats, mouth unable to maintain the kiss, and he rests his forehead against L’s. It’s awfully intimate. He keeps his eyes closed to retain some distance. L is hot in his hand, around him, beneath him. He finds thoughts of violence and murder have long since fled. Instead, the only things he’s processing are the feelings, the sensations. The heat. He’s falling closer and closer.

“Oh– unh, yes, that’s good, that’s good,” mumbles L, cock weeping over Light’s fingers. Light moves his hand faster, trying to match the rhythm of his hips but not quite managing. L doesn’t seem to mind. “Shit, yes, Light– oh–”

Pleasure tightens in his core and Light groans loud and genuine and it feels too good, it shouldn’t feel this good, he hates L, but he’s never felt anything like this before and it’s overwhelming and pulls him in like gravity, like an addiction, like a button he’ll press over and over until he’s dead. L pants against his lips, both their mouths open and bumping together but too mindless to be a kiss, too intimate to be anything but a salvation.

“I’m– oh, god, L, you feel s’ good– better than any– fuckin’ fantasy–”

L moans into his mouth, nodding, sweaty foreheads bumping together. His arms wrap around Light’s shoulders, hold his back and neck, both legs around his waist, hips moving quick and hard against each other. “Doing so good, Light. Will you cum for me?” he breathes, “Fill me up again? Go ahead, fuck, let me– mmh!– feel you come apart.”

Light thrusts desperately, hand losing all of its rhythm, and he obeys with distant babbled swears and praises, things about how good it feels and how tight L is and how he’s better than Light ever imagined. Everything builds, feeling tighter, closer to the edge, wet and hot and perfect and overwhelming. 

His body releases its tension in a snap, emptying waves into L for the second time, and he vaguely registers his fingers wrapped around pulsating heat becoming wet with L’s own release. He grinds harshly into L, needing more, too sensitive, cock spilling what it has left inside molten tightness as his body moves beyond his control.

Light’s pelvis keeps pushing forward, ravenous for every bit of pleasure, reaching for the singularity. He thrusts and he thrusts with stuttering gasps, heedless of L’s whimpers, until he has to pull out when the sensation takes a sudden, sharp turn into pain.

“Oh, fuck,” he says breathlessly, and collapses forward.

L grunts beneath him, his own chest heaving with exertion, and pushes Light off to the side. Light rolls over without fighting. His body twitches, fatigue settling in fast. Eyes can’t open. Sweat makes his shirt cling to his skin and the front of it is covered in L’s cum. So is his hand. Disgusting.

Silence other than their breathing for several minutes. Then, quietly: “Light?”

Light slurs out something incoherent. He’s not even sure what he meant to say. L’s hands touch his face, briefly, push his sweat-drenched bangs back. One hand settles over his heart, feeling the rapid beat in his chest. Not as fast anymore as it had been immediately after his orgasm. 

His third orgasm. Surely he’d only been capable of it due to his age. Just because he managed it doesn’t mean it hasn’t taken a toll on his body. His leaden limbs sink him deep into the mattress.

L makes some annoying tutting noise above him and Light scrunches his face up, then slowly blinks his eyes open. He would have flinched, seeing L’s face hovering mere inches above his, if he had even a modicum of energy left.

“What.” he eventually says.

“Oh, good, you are alive. It would have been quite ironic if you had been the one to die, don’t you think?”

Light swats at his face weakly, arm moving through molasses to manage it. L doesn’t respond despite the hand hitting the reddened side of his face, just cocks his head to the side.

“Light,” he says again, after Light makes no effort to speak.

“What.”

And then one of the most bizarre questions Light could have fathomed comes out of the mouth he just moaned his orgasm into: “Are you okay?”

Light’s brow furrows and his exhausted body houses a flare of indignation, resentment, hostility, and underneath it all, a fragile animal of a thing that craves tenderness and care that he knows L will never give. Especially not after… that. Light certainly wouldn’t, if their positions were reversed.

“Just fine,” he mutters, turning his head away so he doesn’t have to see L so close. Those black-hole eyes will suck him in. Inescapable.

Some sound like a sigh above him, and he hears L murmur, “You are a habitual liar, Light Yagami,” but it doesn’t even register as being directed at him. Then L pushes his shoulder. “Then get up, please. I don’t want to hear how much you’ll complain tomorrow if you don’t clean up before falling asleep.”

“Fuck off,” Light says, weakly. He knows it’ll be best to wash himself now, but he’s so fatigued he could fall into a week-long coma, and the idea of continuing to exist awake with L is one of the most repulsive ideas he can conceive of.

He’s… ruined, now. Utterly. He foolishly handed L the piece of himself that he swore he would never reveal, under any circumstance. What, just because it felt good? Just because it seemed like L would like it?

Weak. Pathetic.

He’s humiliated. He’s covered in dried sweat and cum and he’s shaking like a leaf on the bed he shares with the man he hates more than anything and he can’t stop the hot tears tracking down his cheeks, joining the mess of his hair. Everything’s a mess. Everything is horrible and sticky or uncomfortably dry or clinging to him where it shouldn’t be.

God, now he’s crying? With audible effort, Light rolls over again, away from L, and hides his face in his pillow. What the hell is wrong with him? Now he’ll have to kill L, not even for any sort of gratification, but just to erase the mortification of him having seen Light like this. Light doesn’t get like this. Ever. But somehow his face is hot and wet and buried in a pillow and his body is tense and either the bed is shaking beneath him or that’s him, and the dread inside only compounds the longer he feels L’s eyes on him.

A tentative hand on his back makes Light flinch, but moving his limbs would mean he’s here and he exists, so he doesn’t push it away.

“...it’s alright, Light.” L’s voice is quiet. Light can’t discern mockery or judgement or even comfort. Just the sort of detached objectivity L often laces his statements with. “We should get in the shower. You can pretend like it never happened later.”

He will. There’s nothing else he can do. Light forces his shaking limbs, both impossibly heavy and horrifically weak, to carry him into the bathroom. The chain clinks behind him, but Light resolutely does not look at the man he’s attached to, only sticking his arm out in his direction once to silently demand the brief reprieve from the handcuff he gets while taking his shirt off. 

The water scalds his skin, but Light wants to burn away to ash, so he turns the heat higher and stands under it and lets his skin turn pink, then red. He’s not even washing himself. Just existing under a fiery downpour that isn’t managing to pull the stain from his flesh.

He is not cleansed. He is not reborn. It just hurts.

Time isn’t real but it must have been long enough that L got curious (not worried, he would never be worried) because the curtain is drawn back and cool air rushes in. Light hears him say something in English under his breath but the specifics of it don’t register. He doesn’t acknowledge his presence until he’s forced to, when L reaches forward and turns the temperature of the water down to something moderately cool and asks, voice sounding far away, “Have you done soap or shampoo yet?”

Light slowly shakes his head. Why would L even ask? He’s probably just annoyed Light’s taking so long. Though he’s never known L to be impatient to shower. Well, regardless, fuck him. He can wait for hours for all Light cares.

His eyes have been closed since starting the water, so he startles when hands gently work into his hair from behind. Suds fall down his face and over his shoulders, washing away as quickly as they appear. L isn’t close enough behind him for any contact other than the hands in his hair. The facts of the situation seem vague and distorted. The now cool water soothes his raw skin.

“What are you doing?” Light eventually asks, uncharacteristically timid. It’s all he can do to keep his voice from shaking. L tilts his head forward, washing the rest of the shampoo out.

“Helping move things along,” is the hummed reply. Velvet. Dark water flowing in a stream. “Please don’t take advantage of the situation to drown me. I’d prefer a knife or your hands, if it comes to it.”

“I–” He wants to scoff, or retort, or something, but everything dissipates once it reaches his throat. “...I can’t believe you.”

“I’ve always been a man of mystery. Would you like to finish washing yourself, or will you just stand in the water motionless for another twenty minutes?”

L’s hands have not left his skin. They rest between his shoulders and neck, thumbs pressing in slow circles over his tight muscles. The feeling nearly brings fresh tears to Light’s eyes but he squeezes his eyelids together tight and simply refuses. This is not helping move things along.

“I can do it myself,” he snaps, hackles raising, then sighs, long and worn out and full of everything he can’t say. His shoulders relax a little under L’s insistent touch. “Just… if you’re that impatient, you can shower next to me. It’ll be faster.”

The motion of the thumbs on his back stills for a beat, then the hands retreat. “How considerate, Light. As you wish.”

The remainder of the shower is silent, Light moving somewhat robotically while determinedly avoiding any glimpse of L. Until he finally blinks his eyes open after washing the conditioner from his hair and turns to exit, and finds himself face to face with two black holes. Too close.

L’s hair is even darker when it’s wet, black strands like the bottom of the ocean running down his forehead and framing his face. On his cheek is a fading smudge of red. Light can’t help his eyes flicking down, and he sees a trail of crimson splotches across L’s throat, some veering into violet, with an extremely prominent purplish one that maintains the shape of his teeth low on the side of L’s neck. It will darken considerably come tomorrow, surely. 

Another black hole. Light cannot escape them.

His eyes trail over L’s chest, also covered in mouth-sized bruises, with five red lines raking down towards his stomach. Light sees his fingers tracing down the marks before his mind comprehends his arm moving or the contact. He jerks his hand back when he realizes and looks away, pressing his lips together tightly.

“Are you proud?” It’s barely audible over the water. “Or horrified?”

Light wants to say he’s horrified. A small part of him is, the part that’s encased in vibrating humiliation and shame. A louder, more pervasive part of him is something bigger than proud. Enraptured, utterly. The marks are so satisfying he can’t look at them. The possessiveness he feels over them, over L, over L’s body, wraps around his mind and squeezes rational thought away.

He can’t feel like this. He can’t.

His head and body still feel feeble and everything is unreal. L stands in front of him in the shower. They are floating in the cold depths of space, bare to each other, and Light wants nothing more than to hide. He’s too close. He’s teetering on the edge. Circling in an accretion disk.

The silence stretches. When Light finds his words, they’re not what he intended.

“...You’re beautiful.” He whispers it still looking away.

Fingers touch his chin, tilt Light’s head back towards his handiwork. “Then look,” L murmurs, “admire what you did to me. Touch.”

L’s pale hand reaches for Light’s slightly tan wrist, and he guides Light’s hand back up to his chest. Light watches his fingers splay over the smooth skin, finds his thumb petting one of the bruises he bit into his canvas. 

His other hand comes up of its own volition and strokes along L’s side, over the visible peaks and valleys of his ribs. He traces along the bottom of them and pictures slipping a knife in, driving upwards towards his heart. It’s a thought that feels more intimate now, more tender, than it has in the past.

Light finds himself drifting closer, still not looking up into L’s face, his hands reverent over the dips and curves of L’s body. His stomach, flat with the smallest pudge. Ribs that he can count. Pectorals painted with impressionist flowers. The ghost of fingers imprinted around his throat. The marks Light sucked and bit into his skin are much more prominent. He rests a delicate hand over L’s heart and imagines holding the bloody thing, still beating. The tempo he feels beneath flesh and bone is quick.

Slowly, he drags his fingers up the side of the neck to the edge of the jaw. Sharp, strong. His other hand stays on L’s chest, tentatively placed under his collarbone. He strokes along L’s jaw to his chin and back, not raising his eyes past his Adam’s apple. His fingers drift higher, creeping along the side of his face until his fingertips rest against the warmth of where Light slapped him.

That’s still the hit that felt the best. That first slap. Light lets out a low exhale and slumps forward until his forehead makes contact with L’s clavicle. L makes a small sound and his hands come up to Light’s shoulders, keeping him steady.

“I would have done more,” he says into L’s heart, and he’s not sure why. “I would have hurt you more, if I could. I wanted to.”

L’s hands slide up into his hair. “Did you want to make me cry?”

Light shudders out a breath and nods, small. “More than anything.”

It’s wrong, to tell L these things. It makes him weak. It makes him vulnerable, helpless. It hands L the scalpel he can wield to perfectly dissect Light. It exposes his ugly innards and they squirm in a revolting, pathetic display. L wants these things. L will be overly pleased to have discovered them.

Light cannot let him have them. And yet, he already has.

He’s fallen past the event horizon.

His head tilts up, L’s hands on his cheeks, and the kiss steals every bit of air from his lungs. L drinks him in, devours him. His hands are soft and his lips are softer and Light clings to him, kisses him back desperately, saying please.

Please don’t destroy me.

There is no detectable change, when one passes the event horizon. But Light can no longer escape.

Nothing can.